Nerves, meaning of life and all that jazz

CARLSBAD  A couple of Saturdays ago, 17 or so of us took turns on the recital stage at the Museum of Making Music in Carlsbad (which, by the way, is a jewel worth visiting; and by coincidence, admission is free today from 2 p.m. until 5 p.m. for the “Summer Kickoff”).

We were and are aspiring students of jazz bassist, teacher and my friend, Gunnar Biggs.

Gunnar, who is retired from the San Diego State faculty and former conductor of the “Big Band” at Palomar College, remains among the most active (and best, by my lights) players around.

One after another, we stepped to the stage, some of us (me) flushing with anxiety.

Gunnar gave the audience of three or four dozen people brief introductions for each of us in turn: A 12-year-old was the youngest, some were accomplished or clearly headed that way, members of orchestras or moving into college music programs. A young man of 14 played a transcription of the work of famous bassist Paul Chambers — my jaw dropped at the effort. Wow. If only could …

Some had fingers that flew with amazing speed up and down the frets of their electric basses or along the long fretless necks of the double basses.

A few were newcomers to their instruments, but amazing in how much they have accomplished in so short a time — I think youths must have an advantage. Maybe having younger, more flexible brains and nimble fingers helps, too.

Others were more like me, somewhat older, doing music not for a livelihood (“don’t quit your day job, sonny” is my category) or even lofty play, but just for the joy of it.

The music ranged from the complex and precise Dragonetti’s “Allegro from Concerto for Double Bass & Piano” (a piece prepared for an audition to a college music program) to bluegrass, blues and lots of jazz.

Most were accompanied by jazz pianist John Opferkuch — someone who ought to be honored as a life saver. He backed us, floated above us or behind us, and pulled us out of the deep end as needed.

When I was called, butterflies fluttered from deep in my stomach up into my throat.

Gunnar pointed out later, this may be the hardest crowd any of us ever play for. Out there sat musicians, their friends and family members, people who know something about what they are listening to (and for), people who you know can hear and see every flaw.

As I started into “My Favorite Things” (ala John Coltrane’s chord changes), I got into the melody just fine, stumbled a little on the vamp behind John’s piano solo. Then it was onto my solo and my panic blossomed.

The arc of the solo line that I had planned fled — ideas vaporized by the tension of the moment — my fingers tried to find the E-minor riffs that worked in practice.

When I turned back to the vamp that was to signal John to return to the head of the tune where I was to again lay out the melody, I stumbled for a measure or two, only to have John save me once more.

Then it was over.

I stepped away, my face shed heat like I was the sun with so much adrenalin coursing through my veins.

In some ways it wasn’t much different than being a four-eyed 12-year-old and stepping into the batter’s box to face a big 13-year-old throwing heat (well, it seemed like heat at the time).

Whiff, but no matter. I was at the plate.

If you talk to Gunnar about playing music, he says that all of us, himself included, are somewhere on a path, an arc, toward heaven (my word, here).

Yes, we are at different places, different points in our lives, but always there are better players out there (and probably worse), something new to learn and accomplish. It’s not a race or a competition.

That brings to mind Solomon, the author of Ecclesiastes, a book that wrestles with finding meaning in life when each of us ends up as dust in the end.

“And I saw that all toil and all achievement spring from one person’s envy of another. This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind,” David’s son writes.

Instead of worrying about the Joneses — or even the prodigies — just enjoy it.

A while back, Gunnar gave me a treasure, a single sheet of buff, parchment-like paper with calligraphic lettering.

It says: “Music is supposed to wash away the dust of everyday life.” — Art Blakey.

It does.

Kent Davy is the former editor of the North County Times. Contact him at kent2davy@gmail.com